Mornings
It was just one of his eccentricities, Iroh decided, that he felt mornings had colours.
When he was younger the mornings were red. If he was lucky he had just enough free time to sit and enjoy a cup of tea at dawn. Sit quietly among red tents with red flags, manned by soldiers bending red flame in red armour over red stained earth, and even as he watched the lingering smoke from yesterday's battles made the rising sun red.
Later mornings were what he could only describe as purple. They were soft and ambiguous, maybe there would be a battle that day, probably not. He could sit and savour his tea on a lazily rocking ship before certain noisy people were awake, and watch the slow violet light touch the horizon.
Now his mornings were orange. He wasn't sure why they were this way. Maybe it was Aang's clothes as the twelve year old bent on saving the world chatted to him excitedly. Maybe it was the flash of Zuko's fire as he chased the cackling Toph through their camp because she had poked him one too many times while he was trying to sleep in. Maybe it was even something in the gentle aroma of porridge and tea as he and Katara made breakfast while Sokka snored oblivious in the background. But he thinks, what really makes these orange mornings, is the energy burning under the surface that is so alike those mornings years ago. It was different, yet just as nervous. Just as ready.
A red day is dawning.